


The Orchard of Petit Picpus

by spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Convent Husbands, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Male Friendship, Missing Scene, Or maybe just best friends, Parent-Child Relationship, without benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fauchelevent looked down at Valjean, his eyes creasing with amusement.  “You and love.  ‘What kind of love does a midwinter tree need?’ I asked myself.  I thought you were plumb out of your mind, skittering through the branches in the dead of winter."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Orchard of Petit Picpus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah1281](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah1281/gifts).



The apple ladder was propped up against the tree, allowing Jean Valjean to reach the highest branches. It was a cool, sunny day and a light wind rustled the leaves. The red and yellow apples stood out bright against the green leaves and blue sky. He put a last apple in the bags that he wore draped across his shoulder and climbed down. 

As he put his feet down on the ground, he grinned at Fauchelevent. Fauchelevent stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head at the lines of full bushel baskets that Valjean had been methodically filling all morning. 

“The harvest is plentiful,” Valjean commented. 

Fauchelevent looked at Valjean, amusement in his eyes. “I should say so,” he replied, “and the laborers few. It is a good thing that you do the work of two men.”

Valjean shook his head. “Nonsense.” 

It was a common exchange between the two of them. Fauchelevent would comment on Valjean’s strength and Valjean would demur. “I cannot fathom how these old trees managed to produce this many apples,” Fauchelevent said. 

“I told you pruning would increase the yield,” Valjean replied. He had been working as a gardener at the convent for a year and a half and this was his second harvest. Over the last year, he and Fauchelevent had had their moments of disagreement about how to husband the plants. The pruning of the apple trees during a warm spell last February had been one of them. 

Fauchelevent continued shaking his head in amazement. “This is maybe thrice the harvest of last year.” 

“Not quite twice,” Valjean disagreed gently.

“But last year’s harvest was bigger than the year before, so it is maybe thrice the year before you came.”

With a quiet laugh, Valjean replied, “I can reach further than you on the ladder.” 

“I should say! You are a proper squirrel.”

Valjean smiled in return as he crouched to empty the shoulder bags into a partially full basket, careful not to bruise the fruit. 

“Père Madeleine, you worked magic on these trees.” 

“Hardly magic. The trees just needed a little love.” 

Fauchelevent looked down at Valjean, his eyes creasing with amusement. “You and love. ‘What kind of love does a midwinter tree need?’ I asked myself. I thought you were plumb out of your mind, skittering through the branches in the dead of winter. I figured you’d fall or catch your death in the cold.” 

Fauchelevent had stood on the ground while Valjean had pruned the convent’s overgrown apple trees, fussing for him to come down, entreating him to be sensible and then complaining that he was surely killing the trees, cutting so many branches off. “Winter was the best time,” Valjean commented. “While the tree rests, while its sap is down in the roots, you trim the branches that will not produce.” 

“Yes, yes, you did say that. Looks like you were right, too!” 

Valjean shrugged. “The weather was kind to us this year. A week of rain while the trees set their blossoms and we’d’ve had half this many apples.” He looked up at the trees, studying the branches, and then back at the line of baskets. “I think that is all for today,” he said. “Where should we store them?” 

“Oh, I’d say bring a bushel to the kitchen. We’ll put the rest in root cellar for now. There is not enough space in the storage shed we used last year for all of these apples.” 

Valjean nodded. “Very good,” he said. 

Valjean dropped to one knee and retrieved his bell from where he had left it on the ground. He had taken it off while he worked in the trees, but now he tied it back onto his leg. For months, the bell had haunted him. Though it weighed next to nothing, the jangling of every step had echoed the sound of the chain in his mind. For a while, his limp had become so pronounced that Fauchelevent had suggested that he had been injured in his fall from the sky. It was amazing, or perhaps appalling, the things one could grow accustomed to. Now he barely heard it, just as walking with the chain had become second nature after a while. 

Carrying the last of the baskets into the storage shed, he remembered a year in Toulon when his crew had been rented out to a local orchard. For days, they had carried the bushel baskets and worked the cider press. It had been hard work and the convicts had slept in a frigid barn at night, but being among the trees, practicing the trade of his father, had been a balm for his soul then, much as it was now.

He returned to the orchard to get the apple ladder only to find that Fauchelevent had already taken it. He stood for a moment in the afternoon sun, listening to the wind in the leaves and letting the sun warm his back. In the distance, he heard the laughter and shouts of the girls as they played some game with a ball. Suddenly, a small cool hand slipped into his and he looked down to see that Cosette was standing beside him. “What are you doing, Papa?” she asked. 

He looked fondly at her. “Just thinking about apples.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “About the story of Eve and the serpent?” 

He laughed softly. “No, not about Eve and the serpent. Just apples. And apple trees. I like the trees. I like the smell of the air while the apples ripen. I like the sound of the wind in their leaves.” 

Her puzzled look intensified. She did not say anything, but he could almost imagine her saying, “What a strange thing to think about!” Instead she said, “There’s an hour until Vespers.” 

He smiled at her. “Is there?” 

“Can you play with me?” 

He thought of the onions waiting to be dug, the broken spade waiting to be mended, the dinner for Fauchelevent and himself that it was his turn to cook. Just as Fauchelevent had not expected the trees to yield so many apples, he had not expected his life to yield such happiness. With a smile, he looked down at Cosette and said, “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to MissM for the cheerleading and beta. 
> 
> "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few." is from Luke 10:2.
> 
> If you liked this, please consider reading [this companion story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1034768).


End file.
